


Ghosts That Are Never Gonna Catch Me

by ricriss



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricriss/pseuds/ricriss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John requests something of the Doctor that he's done once in the past, that he doesn't want to do, but in the end, he might not have a choice. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John…"

He looked down at the soldier standing in front of him, trying not to make his own pity obvious. He was broken, an empty shell of the man Sherlock Holmes had made him. John didn't know Sherlock was faking, and the Doctor had to keep reminding himself that it was for John's own good and that he shouldn't tell him. He could possibly solve all of John's problems, give him the hope he needed to keep going without what he had requested of the Doctor, but he couldn't. He couldn't tell him. It wasn't his secret to be telling.

"You've done it before, haven't you?" he all but pleaded, leaning on his cane. His psychosomatic limp had come back, that didn't surprise any of them, and his hair had grayed significantly since the last time the Doctor had saw him. They had both become different men since that time. The Doctor had regenerated, and John was sans Sherlock. "Unless you lied about that as well, which isn't an uncommon occurance."

The Doctor looked down at his feet. He thought of Donna Noble, the only person he had ever been forced to remove the memory of. "Yes…once, but…"

"Please, Doctor. I'm begging you." He refused to meet John's eyes. There was too much hurt in them, too much sadness. The usually bright blue irises were a cold almost-gray, and everytime the timelord looked into them, he could feel the despair growing and blooming inside of him. He knew what it felt like to be left by the one person in the entire big, dark universe he loved. He knew what it felt like to never be able to see them again. He didn't like the feeling, and whenever he looked into his eyes, he could feel it as if he was the one who had been left all over again.

"I understand what you're going through, John, trust me, but it's not a preferable solution. It's only for emergencies," the Doctor said, looking at John right in between his eyes. Anything to avoid them, anything to avoid that feeling. Anything to never relive that ever again.

"Was the other person an emergency?" John asked incredulously, as if anyone else's problems wasn't important to him at the moment, because it wasn't.

The Doctor sighed. He tried not to think about what had happened too often. "Yes. She would've died had she not forgotten."

"Yes, well if I don't forget, I might die." The Doctor closed his eyes so that John wouldn't see him rolling them. Humans and their dramatics.

"Don't act like I'm all melodramatic. I don't mean I'll just spontaneously combust or something. I mean something very more…serious. Something…" John paused and looked down at his cane, as if it pained him to say, before turning his head up to the Doctor with his eyes closed. "Something very similar to what Sherlock did."

The Doctor felt his heart jump into his throat as he processed what John was saying. It all made sense. John didn't know Sherlock wasn't really dead, so he thought that dying would bring him closer to Sherlock, or at least get rid of the empty feeling that not having Sherlock left. If he forgot Sherlock, he wouldn't feel any need to…commit suicide. Just thinking the words made the Doctor feel sick to his stomach.

"John, please…" The Doctor urged, fighting back the stinging in his eyes. "Please, please, don't."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" John said, leaning onto his good leg.

"To wait!" The Doctor yelled before he realized what he was saying, opening his mouth to correct himself but simply gaping at him.

"Wait for what, Doctor?" John yelled back, raising his free hand in exasperation. "Wait for Sherlock to come back? Because last time I checked, you can't reanimate the dead, even some martian like you, and he's not coming back. Ever."

But he is coming back, John. It's been a year and a half. You're half way there. You've made it so far, you've done so well.

"What about Harry? Sarah? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?" The Doctor asked, scrambling for any reason to convince John not to do anything…rash.

John laughed humorlessly. "I know it's selfish of me, but I don't care anymore. They kept me from doing it in the beginning, but it's not helping now. Anything to escape, you know?"

The Doctor did know. John had only lived a short amount of time, in comparison to the Doctor, and Sherlock had been his entire world.

"…I don't want to do it, John," the Doctor admitted. "I don't want to let you do it to yourself."

"I was so alone before him. Now it's worse than it was before, because I can remember what it was like when he was here." John rubbed at his eyes, and it was then that the Doctor realized he was near tears as well. "He was…everything? If that doesn't sound too cliche?" he finished with a watery chuckle.

The Doctor exhaled deeply, trying to regulate his breathing as he crossed his arms across his chest. They sat in a small silence before the Doctor finally asked what was on his mind. "Were you…did you love him, John?"

John smiled, and it was quite possibly the saddest thing the Doctor had ever seen. He was crushed, and beyond repair. "I thought that was obvious, Doctor."

The Doctor rested his one elbow on his other arm, covering his mouth. "But why forget all the good times?" He asked through his hand. "All the laughs, all the triumphs, all the times you were just…together?"

"I don't think you realize just how painful it is to remember him." John started, holding his cane with both hands. "He made me a different man, a better man. He made my life hell sometimes, but it was worth it. He was the best man I ever met, and what I wouldn't give just to have one more minute with him, to tell him everything I didn't, or just so that the last time I see him, he isn't…" He trailed off, staring off into the distance somewhere to the side of the Doctor. But the Doctor had visited the scene after hearing what had happened, viewing from afar, and knew what the sentence was supposed to end with. "Covered in his own blood, staring blankly into nothing."

As he watched John look off to nowhere, as he looked into the eyes of a man broken by war and broken by love, the Doctor finally, resignedly, realized what he had to do. He couldn't let John kill himself, and he couldn't tell John about Sherlock. It was the only option, no matter how much he resented it.

He sighed. "John…are you sure?"

"Yes," John replied without hesitation, standing up straight and meeting the Doctor's eyes.

"You have to be absolutely, completely, 100% sure that you want this," he specified slowly, rolling his sleeves up his arms a bit and stepping closer to John so that he was directly in front of him.

"Please," the former soldier whispered pathetically, barely audible, his eyes slipping closed. The Doctor could practically hear all three of their heartbeats in the small living room of 221B.

"Oh, John…" he sighed, laying his hands gently on either side of John's face over his ears, each of his index fingers at each of John's temples. "Such a good soldier, such a good friend, such a good man…"

The Doctor slid his eyes closed as John managed to slip out a quiet "Sher…" before the process began, and then secondhand memories that told the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson began flashing behind his eyelids; an old classmate, a taxi driver, yellow graffiti, a pool, a woman, a hound, a fall. And then the much, much sadder story of John Watson without Sherlock Holmes; a lot of sitting, a lot of staring into nothing, and not much else.

John's almost silent "-lock" resonated through the apartment as he fell forward onto the Doctor, completely unconscious. He held John's short body up by scooping his arms underneath John's shoulders and wrapping around to hold him in a hug, looking down at the peaceful face pressed against the lapel of his tweed jacket, and let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

He began to woodenly drag John towards the stairs and to his bedroom, trying not to hurt his legs as he pulled him up each step and towed him onto his bed. He laid him on it and pulled the blanket out from under him, draping it over his limp body. The Doctor leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, looking down at the lonely man and trying to ignore the guilt creeping up into his body.

"John Watson," he stated dryly, clasping his hands behind his back as he started to walk backwards to the door, "the man who couldn't have waited."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize on behalf of this chapter, it's unbeta'd and was written in Wordpad at 4 in the morning with The Cinematic Orchestra on repeat.

"You... _what?_ "

The Doctor rubbed a hand down his sullen face, looking down at his feet in shame. "I didn't take you as one who would need repetition in order to understand something, Sherlock," he stated, an obvious attempt at humor that fell flat considering what he had just told the detective. _Your best friend has forgotten you and it's all my fault._ "Of course, you _are_ human, as much as you like to deny it."

"Don't try to change the subject, Doctor." Sherlock's eyes were icy and hard when the Doctor met them with his own, angry enough to intimidate even the thousand year old timelord. "What have you done to my John?"

"My" John. The phrase had rolled off of Sherlock's tongue so naturally, because it was so true. John had been Sherlock's, just as vice versa, Sherlock had been John's. The Doctor felt an even more overwhelming urge to release the mental breakdown that was inevitably going to happen some time soon.

"I've already told you, please don't make me repeat it, " the Doctor whispered pathetically, the all-too-common feeling of stinging behind his eyes returning.

"Doctor." Sherlock stepped closer to the Doctor, the dusty room settling around them. He had been lodging in Molly's brother's old flat somewhere in the middle of Sussex, continuing his destroying of Moriarty's crime ring. The Doctor felt as bad, possibly worse, for Sherlock, having to be out here continuing his work while John was there, living, thinking Sherlock was dead, and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it. The Doctor had heard the speculations about their sexualities, of course he had, but even if they were gay, above all else, they were best friends. No romantic involvement or anything of the sort could ever change that.

"What. Have you done. To John?" Sherlock enunciated, his tone every bit as accusing as it was quiet, and the Doctor had to strain to hear him.

"H-He..." the Doctor gulped, shifting his feet under the intense gaze of the slightly taller man in front of him. "He was in a very bad state when I got there. He thought you were dead."

"So you _erased me from his memory?_ " Sherlock could've been shouting every expletive he knew in every language he knew, and it still wouldn't have been as hateful and biting as the words he was spitting out now.

The Doctor didn't want to tell him, he really didn't. It was such a horrid thought, something that had crossed his mind far too often for his comfort, and the thought of anyone else doing it to themselves made him feel physically sick. "Sherlock..."

"What in God's name--" Sherlock's voice was slowly raising in volume "--could've possibly given you--" the Doctor began to quiver back as the deep baritone gradually raised to a shout, rage evident in every syllable he uttered and every clench and unclench of his fists at his sides "--the _incentive_ \--" Sherlock stepped forward, forcing the Doctor back a step "--to _erase me_ from his _bloody memory?_ " By the time Sherlock had finished, the Doctor's back was pressed against the wall, Sherlock 's face inches from his own as he shouted.

"You don't know what John was like," The Doctor retorted haltingly, trying to stand his ground. Sherlock wasn't in the right, but neither was the Doctor. They had both done wrong. "You don't know how depressed he was, how desperately he begged me to let him forget." The Doctor noticed a twinge of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. "He..." The timelord almost admitted John's love for the detective, but caught himself. Not his secret. Right. He could feel those scrutinizing and observant eyes all over him as he spoke. "He was so alone, Sherlock. He missed you. Just the thought of you was unbearable. He would've..." The Doctor sighed and looked down at his shoes again, swallowing around the lump in his throat and murmuring just loud enought to be audible, "He wanted to kill himself."

The Doctor could feel Sherlock body's go tense in front of him, absolutely frozen. A pregnant silence fell upon them and time passed slowly as they stood, the Doctor staring at the floorboards beneath their feet and Sherlock standing rigid and unmoving. Seconds could have passed, minutes, hours, milleniums, before one of them spoke, the Doctor couldn't tell.

"And he told you this himself?" Sherlock was the first to break the silence, speaking numbly and without emotion. The Doctor finally looked up and was alarmed by what his eyes met: a man seemingly unphased, eyes cool and indifferent. But it was Sherlock Holmes, the master of disguise. He should've expected it.

The Doctor nodded in response, leaning back against the wall with his head hanging slightly forward.

There was another brief silence, before Sherlock seemed to slip back into his usual self, slipping elegantly away from the Doctor and across the room, grabbing his scarf. "You have the TARDIS, correct?"

"No, I came by cab. Of course I have the TARDIS, wouldn't dare go anywhere without my old girl." The Doctor smiled, twining his hands behind his back. They still were nowhere near done with the subject of John, but he didn't mind the diversion at all.

"Would you mind just one more trip?" Sherlock queried with a smirk, standing at the door. "For old time's sake?"

He seemed uncharacteristically excited, especially after what he'd just been told, but the Doctor went along with it happily. "Let's go!" He clapped, scurrying out the door. "Geronimo!"

"Oh god, Doctor, promise me you won't ever say that again," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

The Doctor halted, spinning around to face Sherlock. "What? 'Geronimo'? But it's my _word_ , my... _catchphrase!_ "

Sherlock continued past the Doctor and down the street, into the alleyway where the TARDIS was hidden. "Refrain from using it in my presence, then."

"Ha!" The Doctor snapped to let Sherlock in, following past him and shutting the door behind them. "In your dreams, detective."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update this fic! I didn't have any inspiration,yet somehow I managed to get some tonight after finishing my Minecraft demo at 3:45 in the morning. I'm sorry if Sherlock's characterization is subpar, it's 5am right now and I've been up since 8 in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor turned and rested his back against the door to the TARDIS, effectively closing it. The small click of it sliding into place was a comforting sound. It was familiar. Little things like familiar, everyday sounds were the things that kept him grounded in times when it felt like reality and everything he kept close were falling apart at their seams. Right now, with Sherlock in his TARDIS and John having no recollection of who Sherlock is, could be classified as one of those times.

Sherlock was just asking for one last trip. One last "hurrah!" A harmless request, really. The least the Doctor could do was comply.

"So! Where are we off to, then? I've been meaning to take someone to Raxacoricofallapatorius for the longest time, but for some damned reason, the plans never work out." The Doctor bounded up the steps, abreast Sherlock, resting his hands against the console. The Doctor looked up into the Detective's face and in that moment, it dawned on him what he now understood should've been obvious. Sherlock's excitement had just been another one of his veneers. He was back to his aloof, standoffish self.

"Baker Street. Twenty-thirteen. May. I see your TARDIS interior changed along with your face." Sherlock directed flatly, eyes raking over the walls. "It actually looks like a spaceship now instead of a metal beehive."

The Doctor hung his head. "Sherlock, that's only 6 months after." He should never have let himself be fooled. He always let it happen if the lie he was falling for was less devastating than the truth. Anything to avoid the always-devastating truth.

"Precisely. 6 months." Sherlock stated without emotion.

The Doctor stared at the back of Sherlock's head, waiting for him to turn around and look back at him. When he didn't, the extra-terrestrial sighed in resignation and pulled down one of the many levers and twisted one of the many knobs, sending them jerking through time and space to 6 months and about 50 miles from where they had been just moments ago.

Sherlock at least had the decency to wait until the TARDIS came to an abrupt stop in an alley next to Baker Street before walking with large steps to the door.

"Wait," the Doctor called out. He grabbed his arm and stopped him on the steps.

"What?" Sherlock spat, spinning on his heels. Pure venom laced the monosyllabic word and stabbed directly into the Doctor's veins.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" The Doctor questioned, keeping his gaze and tone even. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't know if you're prepared for the emotions that John is going to feel, for the emotions you're going to feel."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "Sociopath, remember? I don't have feelings," he muttered; he turned and continued for the door.

"We both know that's a lie." Sherlock's hand stopped on the door. "I know you, Holmes. You can't deny your emotions any longer. It'll tear you apart."

His head turned to the side and his mouth fell open to one side as if he was to respond with a snide remark, but instead it hung in front of him, the short but lingering and heavy silence broken by the door creaking open and the bustle of London. The quiet abruptly returned as the door shut behind him. The Doctor sighed and followed him out of the TARDIS, onto the streets ahead of him.

He caught up with Sherlock, whose collar had been turned up to hide his face, standing at the door of 221B. His hand was hovering above the door knob and shook fervently, regardless of the 60 degree weather.

"No feelings, eh?" Sherlock jumped at the sound of the Doctor's voice, immediately collecting himself as he was reminded of the almost-man's presence. The doorknob turned without a hitch, as he had expected, seeing that John had returned to his old ways before the danger had reentered his life and he had to worry about death at every turn. The two men walked inside and stood abreast in the small foyer, surrounded by dark wood and carpet and, for Sherlock, a staggering feeling of being at home. They smelled freshly baked biscuits, but when Sherlock peeked inside Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, he noticed that her coat and purse were missing. She wasn't home.

The floorboards above them creaked heavily, causing Sherlock's breath to hitch in his throat. The Doctor watched as the detective's eyes followed the sound of the creaking, a man walking to the other side of the ceiling. Sherlock gulped. "He's just got out of his chair. He walked to the kitchen. It's," he checked his watch, "ten o'clock. He's making his evening cuppa. Then he'll be getting ready for bed."

Sherlock approached the stairs and hesitated in front of them. His head hung once more looking at the first step as if it were the first step on a thousand-mile journey, and once he took that step, there'd be no stopping. In a sense, it was true.

He stood still, glaring at the stair as if with indignation and confusion and anguish all at once, before finally raising his foot and placing it anxiously on the wood plank. It barely groaned under his foot; he still remembered where he should place his foot to make the least sound. The Doctor followed suit as Sherlock walked up each step, taking his time, especially when he made it to the landing and he could see the door.

Sherlock stopped once the door was completely in his sight, causing the Doctor to stop behind him. He could see the apprehension in Sherlock's face as the man stared up at the door, at the knob, at the shifting shadow visible from under the gap as feet passed by it. The creaking of the floorboards stopped with one heavy one, and a slight scraping of wood against wood.

"He's in his chair," Sherlock whispered, barely audible. "He's drinking his cuppa in his armchair with the union jack pillow under his back, and he's moving his hair over out of habit with his left hand because his right is dominant and his right is holding the paper; he's reading the comics, he always saves the comics for last, as if as a treat for himself for getting through the day." A small giggle from the other side of the door confirmed Sherlock's ramblings. The Doctor never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock, but this time, he doesn't know what to be amazed by: Sherlock's deducing skills, or how well Sherlock knows John. It was as if John was an extension of him, John's brain an extension of his brain, John's heart an extension of his.

The giggle caused Sherlock's breath to stop once more. The Doctor could feel his anxiety creeping along his bones as he watched the longing in Sherlock's eyes, knowing that he was so close to being with John once again.

"Doc- _ehem_ , Doctor?" Sherlock's voice cracked at his first attempt, turning to the man in question when he got it right. "Can you, um...can you call him out for me, and I'll be there when he opens the door?"

The Doctor nodded and smiled reassuringly. Or at least, he hoped it was reassuring, seeing as he felt absolutely nothing close to calm or helpful. He just wanted this over with, he wanted everything back to the way it should be, Sherlock and John, Holmes and Watson.

Sherlock nodded back in assurance to himself, looking back at the door once more.

The quiet breathing of two men trying not to be heard, the slightest squeak as their feet climbed the stairs, their heartbeats in their ears as they imagined what will soon happen. The shifting of denim against rayon as one man adjusted himself in his seat, the clinking of porcelain against porcelain as he placed his cup on its saucer, no idea of what was to come.


End file.
